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cherry red, barely alight

steady smoke rises from the pipe

“nature and nurture are two different things,” his mother would whisper to the young pierre when he would come crying to her in the small one room school she taught at. soft and caring fingers would wipe his tear stained cheeks as she would try to calm the bruised boy. minor scraps and cuts disappear with her gentle touch, the healing magic doing its work. [BREAK][break]

as a teacher, his teacher at one point, she knew the cruelty of children. the rumors they spread, the lies they told. And as she looked upon her precious baby boy, playing in the dirt and flowers, she knew they were just lies. “besides, at this age,” she thought as he plucked a flower from the ground, “kids don’t even know what they like at this age.” [BREAK][break]

arguments were common place in their household. between mother and father in not so quite hushed tones, or brother and brother mimicking what they saw and heard. especially with the younger brother of pierre, antoine, repeating the rumors he heard. the lies, both parents would correct. especially the father. how would it do if the other militia men heard his kid was like that? [BREAK][break]

both angelica and jacque made sure the rumors were never the truth. threats were made and carried through. habits broke by force, with either fist or whip. small towns give varying levels of discretion when it comes to little things like child rearing. the oh so delicate line between abuse and discipline is not clear. [BREAK][break]

divorce was not common or tolerated in the rural town of gale valley. so angelica and her two children left, leaving jacque with his farm. alone with nothing but alcohol. she figured city life would fit them best, or at least her. at least she wasn’t wrong on that front. [BREAK][break]

the children, however, couldn’t say the same. living in their mother’s web of lies, of secrets, of hurt was too much. their father appeared and offered them a choice, bittersweet but sugar coated. come back, it would be better than ever he promised. so they did. eventually. promises made by their father, as they would soon learn, could take years to come true. [BREAK][break]

in those years, pierre matured. he learned to — or at least tried — cope. mirrorlight offered many more opportunities for an aspiring actor, as he had found a passion in the arts. or at least enough of an interest to distract him from reality. for the unfortunate reality was that his magic wasn’t developing. maybe it was the years of abuse, the different environments, the onset of puberty; regardless of the reason, they just saw the results. [BREAK][break]

antoine, only a few years younger, began to show the tell tale signs of magical maturity: the voices, the random conversations, the separate identity. pierre didn’t show these signs. he was, as his mother called him, a late bloomer. [BREAK][break]

life in gale valley was slow and dreary, a complete switch from the bustling city they had just left. and while antoine — the prime example of what a witch should be, of what a man should be — flourished in the countryside, pierre did not. he was scared, alone, weak, and vulnerable. something plenty of people took advantage of. even those closest to him, the ones that were supposed to care and protect him. [BREAK][break]

take a hit it’ll be alright

quick respite from the endless flight

fight or flight, the most basic instinct drove pierre to what he did. and for one with no will to live, much less fight, the answer is all to obvious. but where could he flee? where could he go? gale valley was too painful for him and mirrorlight was just as bad. but he craved the ever going ons of the city. the anonymity that came with a city, something a small town such as his home could never offer. so what was left? where does one go? where everyone goes. sundial city. [BREAK][break]